BROADAX CHIPS 



FROM 



WOODLAND TOWNSHIP 



• -» , O » T 



BY 



^ » . » 



•» • '» ' "., » 



ALONZO BROWN 



PRESS OF WKSTBROOK PUBLISHING CO. 
1218 FILBERT STREET, PHILADELPHIA 



■.\\ 



LIBEftmr of CONGRESS 
Tm Copies Becetved 
AUG 17 1904 
Copyrfsht Entry 

otAsai '^xx^.No. 

q J- H- "L- z. 

OePYB 



iBosajJUBuwa 



COPYRIGHT BY ALONZO BROWN. 1904 



• * 



♦ ,•»»*••«« ♦ 



Big Baraboo Ben, Or the Church in Plum Hollow. 

Don't know him, I s'pose ; have a chew of fine cut? 
Well, that is old Deacon Melchizedek Butt; 
He's goin' to church ; are you minded to foller ? 
My rheumatic legs feel tolerable limber. 
So jest come along, Fll show you the timber 
We have to make angels of here 'n Plum Holler. 

No, I ain't a pessimist, always a harpin' 

On one little string, and carpin' and carpin'. 

I know you will find in the poorest of sod 

Some trees that are fit for the garden of God; 

But, speakin' in gener'l, we're plain common folk. 

Jest hick'ry and walnut and chestnut and oak 

With a sprinkle of crookeder, cusseder stuff 

That you aptly describe by the adjective tough. 

We hain't got no rosewood nor 'hogany nuther, — 

Sich trees grow in cities somehow or other. 

We've plenty of maples, sap limpid and clear, 

They keep the pot bilin' in terrible style 

For two or three weeks, then out goes the spile, 

And sugar is skurce the rest of the year. 

Too sporty is maples, with jasper and ruby 

A-flashin' and.sayin', **We're better'n you be." 

They flaunt their religion of yaller and red 

Till the brethren, a-rampin' and tossin' the head, 

Like great bulls of Bashan, hard after a feller. 

Around the old meetin' house, holler and beller. 

We have stumps that git tougher the harder you hit 'em, 

Pine knots that are posin' as Heavenly beacons. 

And our scrub-oak and iron-wood elders and deacons 

Take wedges of thunder-an'-lightnin' to split 'em. 



No tropical plants? Well, 'twixt me and you, 

We have an old soggy palmetto or two ; 

Palmettos don't flourish up here in the North. 

Too cold and mountaineous, dry, and so forth ; 

But give them a church to take root and grow in. 

They make a considerable stagger at blowin'. 

Yes, up in the pulpit, Fve seen 'em a-pushin', 

And foldin' their branches right over the cushion. 

Your cotton-wood Christian and dogwood locus', 

They all git to Heaven by some hocus-pocus; 

Sich soft 'uns ! They can't hold the heat for a minute, 

And damnin' 'em ain't worth the trouble that's in it. 

We have cedars of Lebanon, moanin' and sighin' 

To know how they'll look in the Temple of Zion. 

We have saplins and dwarfs, both yew-tree and grim 

Old cypress, a warnin' in each withered limb. 

They're all good for suthin. What is it? Lord knows; 

When He trims off the knots and makes 'em more even. 

They won't look so bad; He can use 'em, I s'pose, 

For fence-posts and sich in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

But enough of these rough wooden figures of speech, 

Describin' my neighbors ; the foibles of each 

I see in myself ; I reckon that maybe 

I'm jest as wind-shaken and streaked as they be. 

Yet, one of the comforts we take in religion 

Is clubbin' the trees that our neighbors have grown, 

A-beatin' the branches for jay-bird or pigeon, 

Forgittin' the owlets that hoot in our own. 

We hack at the root of Original Sin, 

A-shapin' our doxy and drivin' it in. 

We know as have tried it — and who of us hain't? 

That scorin' a sinner is sculpin' a saint. 

There's good in the wust, and we haven't a doubt 

That we are the fellers to hammer it out. 

The Master diskivers our speretchel graces ; 



He merely pints out what the principle is 
And leaves us to deal with pertickeler cases, 
Allowin' our jedgment is better than His. 

Accordin' to Scripter, as read by the most, 

A considerable sprinkle of folk'll be lost. 

Howsoever, I reckon it's 'cordin' to natur' ; 

It ain't no use buttin' agin the Creator. 

Without a few sinners, I fear the anninted 

Would be at the Jedgment Day quite disappointed. 

The Mountain o' Blessin' is dear to a pusson 

Because it's so close to the Mountain o' Cussin'. 

A picture of Heaven is hardly complete 

Without a front view of the great Jedgment Seat, 

Yourself in the foreground, the Lord bendin' down 

A-takin' the size of your head for a crown. 

Though millions of sheep your glory may witness, 

You feel sorter shocked in your notions of fitness 

If you don't see the goats escorted by Satan 

Down to Gehenna go runnin' and blatin'. 

Right here in Plum Holler we've titles and orders , 

Phylacteries, too, with the widest of borders; 

Be Asaph the singer, or Watts, if you please, 

The song we love best is the song of degrees. 

We've twenty good sisters that I am aware of 

Each countin' herself the cocoon of a seraph. 

If their sleeves wan't so big at the shoulder no doubt 

You would notice the pints of their wings stickin' out. 

There's old Deacon Roundhead, first name Eliab ; 

He's quietly practicin' up for a cherub, 

And Deacon Melchizedek thinks hisself suthin', — 

He'll be an arch-angel, I reckon, or nothin'. 

But most of the brethren are weak in the knees. 

And the Lord lets them go pretty much as they please. 

No fussin' with them about titles and sich — 

It's Heaven they want, ain't pertickeler which; — 



Jest let 'em creep in, tenth hour or eleventh, 
Third Heaven will suit 'em as well as the seventh, 

A break once a week in their toiHn' and spinnin' 

By many is thought an unpleasant hiatus, 

And religion they take as a holy afflatus 

To fill up the void betwixt sinnin' and sinnin . 

On Sunday we set, as the years come and go, 

And wait for the risin' of speretchel dough; 

And one day's workin' of holiness leaven 

Will keep us puffed up the rest of the seven. 

Now, as for myself, I'm much like the rest, 

I'm skurcely the meanest and skurcely the best. 

The Old Man Adam, my Rachel allows, 

Spends rather too much of his time at our house ; 

With all my prayin' and all my advisin', 

The way he acts up is really surprisin'. 

In gener'l, my nose is a-pintin' to Glory, 

But often I feel it is suddenly slit, 

Then, snap goes a ring, and I foller some hoary 

Old lie to the brink of the Bottomless Pit. 

On Sunday my sperit is tolerably sot. 

Flesh truly quite weak, but perfectly wiUin'; 

I'm feelin' so cussed next day like as not 

I'd cheat my best neighbor for less than a shillin'. 

But still, after all the hard things I have said, 
I stick by the kentry, alivin' or dead; 
With all of our dirt and all of our meanness. 
We still have the smell of original cleanness. 
When anarchy threatens and terrors alarm. 
All eyes are then turned to the boys on the farm. 
Our hands keep the banner of Freedom unfurled, 
Our hearts they are beatin' the march of the world, 
The Lord finds it hard, and more is the pity, 
A-scrapin' acquaintances down in the city. 



And jest like myself, He's shy of the gentry, 
But feels quite at home when he gits in the kentry. 

Well, here is the meetin'-house, stranger, walk in, — 
Here, kneel down a minute — lookout for your shin; — 
I Hke a short prayer just to quiet the squirming 
And settle my stomach to take in the sermon. 
And now, while folks beckon and howdy each other, 
A-fixin' the young uns and one thing or nuther. 
We'll jest give our reverent feelins' a-joggin', 
By hearin' the school-missus beat on the awgan. 



Bits of Philosophy. 

The force of your logic in every case 

Depends on the how and the where it's put; 

You may give your argument point and grace 
By changing it simply from head to foot. 

Why thunder and mutter and swear and wait 
At the big front door of your neighbor, when 

You may walk right in at the rearward gate 
With a rousing thump of your number ten. 

At best, my boy, you are only a grub 

Preparing for glory, or something worse; 

Though greatly puffed up, you're a smallish hub 
For so big a wheel as the Universe. 

As the central boss of the mighty ring. 
You shouldn't complain if it runs askew; 

No wonder the world is a wobbHng thing, 
With the axle as crooked and warped as you. 

In going to Heaven, there's such a thing 
As being too early as well as late ; 



If you haven't developed the angel-wing, 
You may have some trouble about the gate. 

But manage your drapery, friend, aright, 
As you flit about on the heavenly gale, 

I am sure Saint Peter is too polite 
To notice the stump of the satyr's tail. 



Data of Ethics. 

We grieve that morals become so lax ; 

But the trouble is that we don't begin 
By whetting up and laying the axe 

At the root of the old ancestral sin. 

It is hard to cleanse, of the primal smirch, 

Inherited gold that is half alloy. 
On the family tree you must graft the birch 

If you'd be a respectable twig, my boy. 

If you'd keep your principles pulled together, 
You'd better begin with your old grandpap; 

I commend the use of a bit of leather, 
Say about the size of a razor strap. 

Just give him a sprinkle of moral knouts 
And a little smack of the Golden Rule 

Or at least a course of religious sprouts 
In some good Methodist Sunday-school. 

Just try it, my boy. Is your virtue slack? 

It's rather queer, but you'll find it true, 
That hickory oil on your father's back 

Will take the cussedness out of you. 

There's a corneous growth on the father's pate; 
There's a cloven foot when the son is born, 



And the grandson, heir to the whole estate, 
Is a full blown devil with hoof and horn. 

Heredity leads with a mighty tether 

Whole families down to a sultry cHme, 
And you'd better make sure of temperate weather 

By taking Old Nick by the horn in time. 

Your father can do it, three jobs in one. 

Make the Prince of the Power of the Air withdraw 
From you, and your son, and 3^our son's son 

By thrashing him out of the grandpapa. 



The Spirit of Paddy OTlynn. 

He was dyin' that night, was the boss of the city. 
And our hearts they were bladin with sorrow and pity. 
"Are ye riddy?'' he said, "don't put out the tapurs, 
In a minute or two we'll be signin the papurs." 
We spake not a word, and we smothered a sob. 
For we knew he was wurkin his last little job; — 
Thin he gave a sHght squaike loike the grunt of a peg. 
And the ghosht of a kick wid his rheumatic leg. 
And there, wid a bit of a shmoile on his chin. 
As dead as a herrin lay Paddy O'Flynn. 

Now, the spirit of Paddy wint straight to the place, 
Where the paple invist that have fallin from Grace. 
The pavements were broken and muddy the strates 
Loike miany a town in the United States. 
"Begorra," said Paddy, "whereiver ye roam. 
There's nuthin so plisant as falin at home. 
I could wager me sowl widout fear of a loss. 
This infurnal city is ruled by a boss ; 
It's the durtiest place that I iver was in, 
Excipt me own city," said Paddy O'Flynn. 



Now, Paddy's behavior was quiet and civil, 

For he feared that Ould Harry moight give him the divil; 

He had no intintion to shtale and to rob, 

Though he looked Hke a statesman jist out of a job. 

Ould Nick was quite busy, saw nuthin at all, 

'Twas a shlate he was fixen for Tammany Hall, 

But a three-headed dog that was tied by a cable, 

An unmannerly baste that lay under the table, 

By yilpin and barkin and other loike din, 

Called spicial attintion to Paddy O'Flynn. 

The dog was a full-blooded high license pup. 
And Paddy stood shtarin and sizin him up, 
Till Satan says he, "that's a little invintion 
That I thought out miself wid the bist of intintion; 
The baste is quite harmless, and well ye can see 
He's doin the howlin land barkin for three ; 
Besoides, he's reshtricted; that rope suits him well, 
He can range from the Earth to the bottom of Hell; 
But if I mistake not," he said wid a grin, 
"I've the plisure o' shpakin wid Mr. O'Flynn." 

*'Ho ! Jimmy, stip loively," he said wid a wink ; 

^'Here's a gintleman wantin a bit of a dhrink, 

A glassful of turpentine shtamin and bilin, 

Wid a handful of sulphur to kape it from shpilin." 

Agasht stood the spirit of Paddy wid dread. 

And for once in his loife he was glad he was dead; 

But he roulled up his oie as he lifted the can, 

And he shwallowed the blistherin' broth loike a man; — 

"Why, the stuff is exactly loike whisky or gin, 

Oi'll be taiken anither," said Paddy O'Flynn. 

"One glass is enough," said Satan, quite civil, 
"And the man that can take it is fit for the Divil. ' 
It's a job ye are wantin; well, yer jist the right stuff, 

10 



But for my town, rm thinkin, one boss is enough ; 

So long ye have lived in political filth, 

This climate, no doubt, would be good for yer hilth, 

But since I can't give ye a suitable berth, 

O'ive a moind to be sindin ye back to the Earth." 

''May it plase yer UnhouHness, patron of sin, 

I'm quite at yer service," said Paddy O'Flynn. 

"Fm playin me cairds for the Temperance gumps," 

Said Satan, ''at prisint High Loicense is thrumps ; 

The secular papurs — I own two or three — 

For a consideration, are solid for me, 

And the papurs religious, while scornin the pilf, 

See the quistion of Loicense as I do mesilf ; 

And whin they oblage me, they have the good sinse 

To do it for nuthin and pay the expinse ; 

But the Church and the pracher, I niver shall win." 

"O, it's there you're mishtakin," said Paddy O'Flynn. 

"The Church, yer UnhouHness, pracher and pew, 
I can manage much betther and chaper than you; 
The M. E., the P. E., the U. P., the Jew, 
The Catholic, Lutheran, nate Quaker, too, 
Prisbyterian, Baptisht, both ilder and daikin, 
(It's thrue, it's not of the bisht I am shpakin), 
They prache and they pray for the downfall of rum, 
But spacheless their ballot; loike heeler and bum, 
When they hear the shwate music of Parthy begin, 
They dance to the fiddle of Paddy O'Flynn," 

"I've noticed, moreover, that pious dishtillers, 
In the House of the Lord, make beautiful pillars; 
It's the althar, you know, that makes houly the gift, 
And the Church takes the man that can give her a lift, 
And it's plisant to see the pet wolves in the fold 
A-lookin so nate in their collars of gold. 

11 

L.ofC. 



O, vis, I can manage the Church very well, 
If ye'll only be lettin me thry it a shpell. 
Do ye trusht me, Yer Majisty, patron of sin? 
Put your hand in the flipper of Paddy OTlynn/' 

Said Satan, "Go shpake to the pracher and pew ; 
This bit of philosophy, prove it is thrue : 
Prohibit a curse, and it surely will come ; 
High Loicense it is that will rid ye of rum. 
Kape politax out of the churches, I warn. 
And shtick to the parthy in which ye were born. 
If this ye shall honestly, earnestly do, 
It's the Divil's own blissin I'll give unto you.'' 
My frinds, up and down in the land ye have been. 
Have ye met wid the shpirit of Paddy O'Flynn? 



The Divine Mews. 

I, the superannuated 

Thomas Cat, upon the fence. 
Ponder the con-catenated 

Facts of my experience; 
As my aged corporation 

Waxeth warmer in the sun. 
Bits of ratiocination 

Through my cerebellum run. 

Life's a puzzle, my dear fellow, 

I have tried to see the nub. 
Just as you and young Sordello 

And the brilliant Browning Club. 
I believe in pre-existence, 

Just as other people do ; 
I have warnings from a distance 

That I can't explain to you. 



What's the origin of matter ? 

Whence the Sweitzer, and the Dutch? 
Whence the butter, and the batter, 

And the sausages and such? 
Idle fancies, I eschew 'em, 

'Tis the difference to see 
'Twixt the meum and the tuum 

That has mostly bothered me. 

Crochets m;any have a seat in 

My medulla, for I hold, 
I'm a part of all I've eaten 

As Ulysses was of old. 
Beasts of every form and feature 

Mix their muscle and their fat, 
In the shapely rounded creature 

That the pubHc calls a cat. 

Through my brain weird thoughts are flying, 

Light as froth upon the cream. 
Vague as soul-unsatisfying 

Pigs' feet eaten in a dream. 
Whence this gleam of feHne faces. 

The propensity to dine. 
Genuflexions and grimaces. 

In the human cat divine? 

As I think of past condition. 

Of the present and to be, 
Comes this awful intuition 

Like a thunderbolt to me. 
I was once that creature dreaded. 

That epitome of sin, 
Drivelling, puling and bald-headed 

Man with tail upon his chin. 

Gladly would I be the winner 



Of a mansion in the sky, 
But they say Fm not a sinner, 

And it's foolishness to try. 
What is Natural Selection? 

Man's own selfishness embalmed, 
Like the doctrine of election. 

Dear to all except the damned. 

What's the ego? no solution, — 

And I ask in study brown, 
In this whirl of evolution, 

Am I going up, or down? 
Shall I, in some blessed station, 

With Grimalkin spirits play. 
Or to blank annihilation 

Be in whirlwind swept away? 

Though I watch the ceaseless spinning 

Of the whirligig of Fate, 
Naught can shake the under-pinning 

Of my faith in future state. 
1 am growing meek, forgiving, 

Live according to my lights ; — 
Naught is worse for holy living 

Than this running out o' nights. 

Well I know in my profession, 

On the platform and the stage, 
I have made a deep impression 

On the thinkers of the age. 
Who, as I, the part assigned him, 

So divinely plays and sings. 
And withdrawing, leaves behind him 

Such exquisite fiddle strings? 

I am aged; I am drawing 

Near the grand climacteric; — 
14 



Thwart my bowels, I feel a sawing 
Like a freshly rosined stick. 

I am weary of the spying 
And the treachery of man, 

Of the bootjack and the flying 
Of the old tomato can. 

In a state of catalepsy, 

I will pass beyond the Styx, 
Where the}^ say there's no dyspepsia 

And a scarcity of bricks. 
Man shall come, my talents many, 

I will keep them all in trim ; 
In a place they call Gehenna, 

There Til sit and wait for him. 



Optimism. 

Yes, yes, my dear boy, every dog has his day, 

But you're a perennial howler ; 
You get in a snappish, dogmatical way 

By neglecting to muzzle the growler. 

You say that the world is a bubble, and flat, — 
Quite original! Who would have thought it? 

'Twas Adam and Eve let it fall, you know that, 
And the rest of the family caught it. 

You hint to your wife she is wasting the pelf, 
It's a drain on the source of affection, — 

And you, my dear boy, are perfection itself, 
And your wife is the pink of perfection. 

Don't badger your love about sable and mink, — 
Put a seal, my dear fellow, upon it; 

The climax of bliss you may cap, only think, 
With that neat little trifle, a bonnet. 

15 



You make of your editor bitter complaint, 

To your Muse he is very uncivil ; 
But you shouldn't expect to be finding a siaint 

In a man who is playing the devil. 

Your wit has the flash of a meteorite 

And a faint little odor of toddy; 
Though much like a comet, you're rather too ligh 

To be classed as a heavenly body. 

Ambitious? ha, ha! One friend you will gain. 

Death sits at the top of the ladder. 
You'll never be troubled with wind on the brain 

After getting a stone in the bladder. 

Already the fates make a snip at the thread 
Of your life as you awkwardly spin it; 

There's a vacancy, too, on the top of your head, 
More abhorred than the vacuum in it. 

Just as Providence made you ? cheer up, my dear man 

I'm sure he's ashamed of the blunder, 
No doubt, if your life is a flash in the pan, 

When you die, you are going to thunder. 



The Course of True Love. 

He. — ''Your Hfe and mine so firmly knit 
Scarce even death shall sever ; 
My life so sweet I fancy it 
A honeymoon forever. 
She. — Yes, yes, indeed, and going hence, 
So smooth our path and even, 
We'll hardly know the difference 
Between this earth and Heaven. 

He. — This cosy room, look 'round and see, 

i6 



My turtle dove, my linnet! 
I often think how drear 'twould be 

Without my darling in it. 
She. — Yes, yes, indeed, but when you're dead, 

IVe planned it out with mother, 
I think, dear James, Til move the bed 

From this side to the other. 

He. — And that will help you to forget 
Your poor, old, simple lover. 
She. — Ridiculous! you cross old pet. 
What meanings you discover! 
You are the sun, I am the moon, 

I shine by what I borrow, 
And now. Sir Knight, I crave a boon, — 
Your check will do to-morrow. 

'Tis gloves and shoes, a silken gown, — 

One's gowns are such a bother! 
I have but two, the blue, the brown, 

I really need another. 
And then, my dear, young Mrs. Flip 

Has got a brand new bonnet 
With shrubbery, — a. lovely chip — 

And little birds upon it. 

And one thing more, dear James, I feel 

You really ought to buy me: 
A nice new sacque. Pacific seal; 

I'm sure you'll not deny me. 
He. — You shall not want for glove or shoe, 

The gown, a kiss has won it, 
The little scarecrow bonnet, too, 

With chicken-roost upon it. 

But bless my soul! my darling, how 
The dickens shall I word it? 

17 



The seal-skin sacque, just now, just now, 

My dear, I can't aiJord it. 
She. — You stingy thing! it must be true, — 

They say you've grown a miser, 
And mother dear, she says so, too; 

Pray do, for once, surprise her. 

He. — I wish your mother at the deuce, 
The meddUng old wiseacre, 
Herself a goose, her child a goose. 
My dear, the devil take her! 
She. — Dear James, I hate this wordy war, 
I press my lips together; 
You always leave the door ajar 
When it is windy weather. 

He. — ^A thing of beauty is a joy. 

My dear, they say, forever; 
But marry one, to keep the toy 
Exceeds your best endeavor. 
She. — You raffled well for me, you grant, 

'Mid all the strife and jargon — 
He. — And got the old she-elephant 
With you, into the bargain. 

She. — Your wit, my dear, is broad and coarse. 
He. — Your mind, my dear, is narrow. 

Your tongue a sword, or something worse, 
Dividing joints and marrow. 
She. — My dear, you are the stately palm; 
On me, the bending willow. 
You look, ha, ha! so cool and calm, 
And I, — poor peccadillo! 

He. — ^When I did court, my wit was dull — 
She. — My dear, I always thought so. 
He. — Were I again to pick and cull — 

i8 



She. — I'm sure I'd not be caught so. 
He. — I hoped a wife, perhaps to boot — 
She. — A fortune to inveigle. 
He. — I thought a gentle swan would suit — 
She. — An old bald-headed eagle. 

He. — Sweet jackdaw, my complaining hear; 
Stop pecking just a minute. 
When I received your hand, my dear, 
I thought your heart was in it. 
She. — And so it was ; I marvel that 
You had the luck to win it, 
With so much dust upon your hat, 
And so much dunce within it. 

He. — We two, my dear, are always out. 

Or in a peck of trouble. 
She. — That we can see as one, I doubt. 

While you are seeing double. ' 

What dirty cuffs, untidy hose. 
My dear, what taste in dressing! 
The way you crumple up your clothes 
Is really quite distressing. 

He. — My dear, your tongue must need repose, 
Pray finish out your blessing 
By turning up your pretty nose. 
Your finer thought expressing. 

She. — Your tongue, my dear, is dropping bile, 
It must be quite annoying. 

He. — You bend on me that bitter smile — 

She. — To keep the sweet from cloying. 

At meals, your stiff, unsocial air 
The conversation freezes. 
He. — Your idle chat runs here and there, 
And Hke a gad-fly teases. 

19 



She. — I knew at first your hair was thin, 
My love was all the greater ; 
But that your head was bald within, 
You showed me somewhat later. 

He. — A gentleman whatever he thinks, 
On facts will never twit you. 
i^ You are a spiteful little minx, 
IVe half a mind to quit you. 
She. — Take back this brooch; this marriage ring^ 
Pray keep it for another; 
BoO', hoo! boo, hoo! you nasty thing, 
I'm going home to mother. 

He. — If Heaven you gain 'twill surely be. 
At tenth hour or eleventh ; 
Third Heaven is good enough for me, 
You, dear, may take the seventh. 
She. — Pray choose yourself, I do not care. 
Take one or all the seven; 
Tis Purgatory where you are. 
Where you are not, is Heaven. 

An hour passed by, the two awoke 

To common sense and reason; 
Both said a harmless little joke 

Was just the thing in season. 
John brought the tea; the loving pair 

Began anew their wooing ; 
Two turtle doves, he left them there 

A-billing and a-cooing. 



Post- Prandial Reflections. 

Old Adam, when rooted in human sile. 

Is naturly slow a-dyin'. 
But keepin' a regelar flow of bile 

Is mightily sanctifyin'. 



20 



Though vittels and drink have a savin' power, 

They are falHble, I diskiver, 
For the sweetest sperit is sure to sour 

If the sugar gits in the liver. 

In the Bottomless Pit the pain, I guess, 

Is partially gastronomic 
And right in touch with the cussedness 

At the pit of the human stomach. 
The stomach will hypnotize your toast 

Or cabbage or sweet pertater, 
And make it a regelar grinnin' ghost 

A actin' its part to natur. 

Mince pies will rise at the dead of night 

A demandin' an expl'anation, 
And puttin' you under a powerful sight 

Of personal obligation. 
The nightmare born of an angel cake, 

Is holy hallucination, 
And, I diskiver, is hard to shake 

As a tolerbly nigh relation. 

Why, only last night, the roast pig riz 

In the shape of old Granny Drayton, 
And up and down on the premises 

It went a perambulatin'. 
Then it got right up and sot on me, 

Preparin' for vivisection — 
You see it was one of the family. 

And I couldn't miake no objection. 

My Peggy come up one night, poor dear, 
With the writins of Richard Baxter, — 

I never experienced sich a skeer 
Since the day that I up and axed her. 

"Saint's Rest," says she, with a drollish look. 
While I squirmed with the inward massage, 



21 



'^Digest a passage of this here book 
And it U digest the sassage." 

"The proof of your vittles, dear John," says she, 

''It ain't so much in the eatin' 
As 'tis in keepin' your conscience free 

For jinin' the Baptist Meetin'. 
They're too polite in the future state 

To notice your head is wooden, 
But you'll never git through the shinin' Gate 

If you're loaded up with puddin'." 

If your holiness coat is half a fit, 

You're sartin to be the victor. 
For sperrits will gen'rally up and git 

At hearin' a varse of Scripter; 
Though truffled turkey and pigeon pie 

May block up the way before us, 
I believe the Kingdom is mighty nigh 

To the man with a sound pylorus. 

A heavenly bein' is seldom riz 

By eatin' a hearty dinner. 
But it's jest the thing for the rheumatiz 

Or raisin' a tarnal sinner. 
Jest try it yourself — I never blab 

'Bout speretchel visitations. 
But if your supper is deviled crab, 

Look out for your durned relations. 



Twins. 

By Gemini. 
Two friends are we, myself and I, 

I am the pious twin — 
Myself, 'tis useless to deny, 

Committeth all the sin. 



22 



Myself, in sooth, I know not why, 

Is such a queerish elf, 
That while I know that I am I, 

I hardly know myself. 

Of all my friends both grave and gay, 

Myself I love the best ; 
Vm like myself, I blush to say, 

But, surely I'm in jest; 
For, any man of common sense 

Can hardly fail to see 
A most important difference 

Between myself and me. 

While men in me no fault detect. 

So nicely I behave. 
Myself, I more than half suspect. 

Is more than half a knave. 
At church, while I do sit and pray 

And pious vows repeat. 
Myself is planning how next day 

His neighbor he may cheat. 

When I am feeling sweet and pure, 

Most saintly and divine, 
Some ugly trick myself is sure 

To play, and call it mine. 
And I have often wondered much 

While toiHng for the pelf, 
Just how I came to live with such 

A rascal as myself. 

Myself and wife go out to sup. 
Sometimes go out to dine; 

She knows just when his back is up 
The way he holds his spine. 

His tongue is sharp with bitter stings 

23 



That vex his better half 
About the price of coal and things, — 
Such trifles make me laugh. 

Myself grows very hot and wroth, 

O'er devilled crab and clam, 
While I do sip my mutton broth 

As patient as a lamb. 
I make no stew about the roast. 

Or oysters on the shell, 
When canvas-back or quail on toast 

Will do me just as well. 

A little fun I often poke. 

To tickle up his bile, 
Myself, when I do crack a joke. 

Will hardly crack a smile ; 
And as we sit in silent mood, 

As often now we do. 
He cheweth fancy's bitter cud. 

And I eschew it, too. 

Sometimes I feel discouraged, quite; 

No Ghibelline or Guelph, 
E'er waged a fiercer, hotter fight 

Than I do with myself. 
And you, my friend, would be surpriscc!^ 

To know how hard I try 
To make myself as civilized 

A gentleman as I. 

One thing I notice, year by year. 

At which I feel appalled; 
Myself is growing very queer, 

And I am growing bald. 
'Tis for myself and not for me, 

34 



I feel concern of heart ; 

Myself is not, I plainly see, 

Quite ready to depart. 

And yet the time is drawing nigh 

That ends our mortal state; 
We soon shall meet, myself and I, 

St. Peter at the Gate ; 
And I expect beyond a doubt. 

Myself, because of sin. 
Will be most dreadfully put out 

When I am taken in. 



The Thought Mzk^chine. 

The human head, though a heavenly body, 
Is a mass of ugliness quite opaque 

That often shines by the light of toddy. 
Revealing to nature a big mistake. 

The organ of thought is a grayish ball 
Of blubber wrapped up in a bit of skin, 

Without any visible means at all 
For letting the ideas out or in. 

There are four little holes for light and air 
And one for the venting of spite and such ; 

This funny contrivance you thatch with hair 
And call it your thinker, and prize it much. 

The cerebrum, known as the seat of mind. 
Is common to man with the ape and goose, 

And, like the slit in your coat behind, 
You wear it for ornament, not for use. 

Yes, the mind gets smaller, I have no doubt, 
By giving your neighbor a piece of it ; 

25 



But a little puffing will swell it out 
To about the size of the Infinite. 

The tail of the brain, or the spinal marrow, 
Is a long, white, tapering bit of twine. 

Distributing ideas crude and narrow. 

With a dash of sentiment down the spine. 

Rascality runs clean down to your toes; 

Little sins in your stomach wax bold and gay; 
And Venus and Bacchus, right under your nose. 

Sit flirting, sub-rosa, as one may say. 

While little lackeys as soft as vellum 

Run hither and thither on mischief bent. 

You sit up there in your cerebellum 
And don't see a tithe of the devilment. 

The brain is a carriage in which you ride 
From earth to heaven, and the only trouble 

Is that the vehicle is hardly wide 

Enough for yourself and your tricky double. 

And when you present, kind sir, or madam. 
Your soul to St. Peter, in fashion due. 

Be careful, I pray, or the old man Adam 
May slip into Heaven instead of you. 



The Frog and the Ox. 

(Froggie bovemque cum bust'em.) 

Professor Pollywog of Greece 
Resolved in musical caprice 
To challenge old Sirloin Moohamet 
To try his bellows on the gamut ; 
And, ere his mind was fully clear, 

26 



His relatives were shocked to hear 
That he had been and gone and done it. 

The austere ox eschewed a smile; 
His liver biled with angry bile 
To see a frog so green and small 
With such a huge Oxonian gall ; 
And by his dear dead father's ghost, 
He sw^ore to give that frog a roast 
And staked his rarest steak upon it. 

The bumpkin without form and void 

Becomes the college anthropoid; 

And tadpoles rise from voiceless creatures 

To be batrachian music teachers. 

Each eggf an embryonic quack, 

Is but a fowl attempt to back 

Darwinian Evolution. 

All this is true, but froggie found 
Before he scored a single round. 
To fool with stock was bitter loss; 
That beastly bull was born a boss. 
And for the son of pollywog 
To be a bull without the frog 
Was bloody revolution. 

The doctor came and shook his head; 

''A very bad attack,'' he said; 

*'Had I been called last night, perhaps — 

But now, dear me! I fear collapse. 

Clear case of wind too much confined, 

Acute gastritis of the mind, 

And many a fellow dies of it." 

The cockney croakers all who went 
To view the great experiment 
27 



Declare that froggie, fair and fat, 
Became a blasted, blooming flat; 
And all agree, from what befel, 
He was a most confounded swell; — - 
That was about the size of it. 

He died, so ran the Morning News, 
A frog of vast, expansive views ; 
The stupid ox, though void of wit. 
Had made a neat and lucky hit; 
And froggie did the graceful thing 
When he was bounced the cattle ring, 
To tumble to the racket. 

This gory tale, or allegory. 

The ancients thought a bully story. 

The moral runs: Whatever your state, 

^Tis rather cheeky to inflate ; 

And you will find with great disgust. 

The swell who goes upon a bust 

Is sure to split his jacket. 



A Sure Cure. 

Well, stranger, no, I reckon not! 

No Hghtnin' rods, I thankee, 
ril not be gulled, I tell yer what. 

By no begoggled Yankee. 
But, howsomever, since you spoke, 

Them lightnin' innovations 
Jest bring to mind a little joke 

On one of my relations. 

His bill was like the anchor fluke 
Of some big double-decker, 

And well I mind his gay peruke, 
That tarnal old woodpecker. 

28 



The shingles they wuz dry and red 

And hard as iron kittles, 
And there right over Granny's bed 

He pounded for his vittles. 

'Twas airysipelas Granny had, 

Or something nigh it, surely; 
And Marthy Pearson says to dad, 

" Yer Ma is mighty poorly ; 
And if you'd keep her yet awhile 

From shroud or sich like garment, 
The calkylation you must spile 

Of that air speckled varment/' 

The lookin'gl'ass, she sed, had fell 

A smashin' all tu flinders, 
And Bull had howled for quite a spell 

Right under Granny's winders. 
She feared that daddy wan't awake 

Unto the sitywation ; 
'Twas mighty serious to mistake 

A heavenly indication. 

Now daddy's mind was of a bent 

Quite skeptical and caustic; 
He sed he didn't keer a cent 

For any sich prognostic. 
But Marthy Pearson fanned the fuss. 

And dad was riled, I reckon, 
To hear that old red headed cuss 

Keep up his tarnal peckin'. 

And so he took his double-flint 
And aimed it with precision. 

And in his eye there was a glint 
Of terrible decision. 

29 



We youngsters, Polly, Pete and Mose, 

On our old gun was bettin' ; 
We looked as wise as little crows 

Upon the woodpile settin'. 

The smoke riz up and stood a bit 

In little rings and greater; 
We knew that dad had made a hit 

But didn't see the nater; 
And then, we all grew cold and hot 

And crawly in our stomicks, — 
The Hghtnin' rod that daddy shot 

Came sliden down kerflummix. 

The bird jist put his foot to nose 

In language figurative. 
And then the way he spread his toes 

Was quite significative. 
And Marthy Pearson shook her frills 

A speaken soft and iley. 
And she was twitchin' round the gills 

And lookin' sorter smiley. 

Though daddy grinned and wiped his gun,- 

(There wan't no use a fussin'), — 
We knew he felt, with all his fun, 

Considerable like cussin'. 
But Marthy Pearson she was right, 

As all of us diskiverd; 
The bird flew off that very night. 

And granny she rekivered. 

No, stranger, we hev talked too long, 

I lain't no hand at braggin'. 
But you had best be movin' on 

Yer thunder-an-Hghtnin' wagon. 

30 



IVe got a misery in my head, 
At spells I'm kinder looney, 

And my old woman's gone to bed 
A feelin' rather puny. 

And when my folks is feelin' sick, 

I tell yer what the fact is, 
I jist take down my shootin' stick. 

That is my reglar practice ; 
And if I meet with nothin' odd, 

Like dog or feathered meddler, 
I jist go shoot the lightnin' rod, 

Or else the cussed peddler. 



The Old Boy to Alma Mater. 

Here's my ditty, take it gratis; 

With our sorrows and our joys. 
Alma Mater, hear the status 

Of thy old, gray-headed boys. 

Each has had his dream prophetic, 
Ow^ned a winged ass or two; 

Each has waxed and waned poetic 
Much as other people do. 

We have cruised in quest of victual 
Several hundred thousand miles ; 

Some have even sailed a Httle 
Farther than the Blessed Isles. 

Greek professor in the college 

Hath a diet mostly pi ; 
Hark! from out the Tree of Knowledge 

Comes a breathing and a psi. 

31 



Roman tongue hath power to fatten 
And we know the spirit Seth, 

He that eateth roots of Latin 
Shall not taste a second death. 

Bildad, now a handsome fellow, 

Up in Heaven storeth pelf, 
Heaping treasure bright and yellow, 

Keeping pennies for himself. 

Here's a sprig of Orthodoxy; 

Bull or bear among the stocks. 
He hath grown a little foxy 

Even for the son of Fox. 

Once in dream, beHeve the story, 

I beheld the festive Peck 
Entering the gates of Glory 

With a rope around his neck. 

Righteous grown and rather witty, 

Now he goeth on a bust 
With the Fathers of the city 

And the spirits of the just. 

Mother, see the briefs and dockets, 
See the lawyers, how they grow. 

All their heads and all their pockets 
Full of other people's woe! 

Each, though he attack with courage 

The progenitor of lies, 
Calmly puts a second mortgage 

On his mansion in the skies. 

Thou hast changed our Western habits ; 
32 



With thy wand of classic birch 
Thou hast made our old jack-rabbits 
Fit for elders in the church. 

What is now the honest Quaker 
Building boulevards, was but 

A poor w^ooden-nutmeg maker 
Down in old Connecticut. 

Some there be that, eagle feathered, 
Smite the mountain-mist to flame; 

Some their winged steeds have tethered 
In the airy hall of Fame. 

Some, like me, their fate defying. 
Plucked and singed, before the gale, 

In the world's back-yard are flying 
With no feathers but the tail. 

Lauding high thy mighty thinkers, 
Men that make Aladdin-lamps, 

Mother, don't forget the tinkers 
And the peddlers and the scamps. 

As of old, thy torch is gleaming 
And the voice of Wisdom calls 

Unto the new prophets dreaming 
In the shadow of thy walls. 

Whilst we kneel within the portal 
And thy hand a moment hold. 

Touch us with the fire immortal, 
Thou that never growest old. 

Winter skies above us arching, 
On our heads eternal snow, 

33 



Still, we must be up and marching ;- 
Give thy blessing and we go. 

Boys, I shouldn't greatly wonder 
If you play your little tricks 

Till at last you go to thunder 
Or to Orcus and to sticks. 

But I shall be glad to meet you 
If you come to Paradise, 

And politely will I greet you, 

Though with feelings of surprise. 



Crabbedness. 

The crab is in the social swim, 
The ladies fairly eat him up. 

And yet they always devil him 
Whenever he goes out to sup. 

You dine with him, and, strange to tell, 
He fills you with an inward dread; 

In life, you know him very well. 

You know him better when he's dead. 

You eat him, lo! explain who can, 
It seems a trick of Fairy Mab ; 

Crab seems a little less than man 
And man but little more than crab. 

He feels for you, you feel for him; 

And when at last you get in touch. 
His humor seems a trifle grim. 

And you are crabbed, overmuch. 

You speak to him of things below, 

34 



He answers with his hands and feet; 
You ask where he expects to go, 
He tries to tell you with his meat. 

You call the priest, your soul he shrives; 

The legend on the tombstone saith : 
These two were lovely in their lives 

And not divided in their death. 



The Hunter and the Gunn. 

Young Theodore Gunn was a clergyman's son, 
And the knowing old ladies declared, every one, 
As a son of the church and the son of a Gunn, 
He was likely to grow up a canon. 
Now, Miss Tilly Hunter, demure as a nun, 
BeHeved in protection, as many have done; 
And, like a true hunter, she felt that a Gunn 
Would be a delightful companion. 

Among the young fellows were plotting and strife; 

Each had a design on that innocent life. 

For, each would have taken Matilda to wife, 

So sweet was the beautiful creature. 

But the knowing old ladies were there on the ground, 

And, somehow or other, they suddenly found 

That little Miss Hunter was gunning around 

And cocking her eye at the preacher. 

We sat on the porch, Tom O'Shannon and I, 

And the chance of our life was the chance of a die ; 

Would Matilda say knot? Would Matilda say tie? 

Was the delicate question assigned us. 

But preachers are holy, or partly divine ; 

And cold was the shudder that ran down the spine, 

When we heard that a canon was wheeled into line, 

Right there in the parlor behind us. 

35 



And we knew he was valiantly storming the fort, 
For something went off with a loud report ; — 
Young ladies, you notice a noise of the sort. 
Sometimes, when a fellow proposes. 
Yes, the canon was loaded, believe it or not, 
Right up to the muzzle, and every shot 
Went smack to a very delectable spot, 
As sweet as a garden of roses. 

And we longed to whisper the reverend pater 
The effect on the lady would be much greater 
If he made less noise with the osculater ; 
For such is the nature of women. 
But then, a vicarious kiss, for us. 
Was a mere canonical blunderbuss ; 
So we cussed the ecclesiasticus. 
And called him an old persimmon. 

Though none was so gallant as young Theodore, 

Yet the maiden grew pale, and she trembled the more, 

For ne'er stood the gentle Matilda before 

So close to the mouth of a canon. 

Then he presented arms — the dual was one; 

The cry of a Hunter, the click of a Gunn; — 

I fled from the spot with a jump and a run. 

And after me, Thomas O'Shannon. 

From the old mossy vicarage over the way, 
The shout of an army is heard every day ; 
They are holding the fort over there, people say, 
Or storming the Kingdom of Heaven. 
And you will believe me in spite of the puns, 
For there on the porch where the clematis runs. 
You see an old canon and six little Gunns, 
And dear little Gunnesses seven. 

36 



In Memoriam. 

The Lord in the matter of John Sullivan 

Hath expressed his opinion quite fully; 
He takes no delig'ht in the legs of a man, 

Nor the arms of a champion bully. 
He's surely mistaken; the world snoring on 

Is waiting the Spirit to move it, 
But nothing can do it like muscle and brawn, 

And Corbett and Sullivan prove it. 



Our logic is soHd and sound to the core ; 

Yes, mind is the master of matter; 
But logic the Irishman's Hammer of Thor 

Makes chaff for the whirlwind to scatter. 
Bow down to the bully, bow down, we insist; 

We honor, in spite of his bragging. 
The man that can set with the shake of his fist 

The tongue of a continent wagging. 

The shoeblack, the jockey, the great millionaire 

Take odds on the sinewy hugger ; 
And the deacon wakes up with a half-uttered prayer 

^'Lord bless him — thy servant, the slugger." 
John Sullivan, much Hke the cholera scare, 

Puts man on a brotherly level ; 
A common humanity tempers our care 

As we go on our way to the devil. 

And woman, dear woman, what language will suit ? 

Little heathen, how shall we describe her? 
Which is it she worships, the man or the brute, 

In this slough of the slime of the Tiber? 
A Lowell, a Longfellow, — brain without hands — 

She scorneth such primal amoebae; 

37 



Bostonia's slugger bestrideth the lands — 
Melt, O heart of the daughters of Sheba! 

O Jack of the clubs, thou'rt King of the Hearts, 

Thy Lilliput yearns to caress thee ; 
And now that thy champion spirit departs. 

Our children shall rise up and bless thee. 
We'll give thee a monument stronger than brass. 

An escutcheon proclaiming thy station, — 
A billy-goat rampant, adored by an ass. 

Fit emblem of thee and the nation. 



^ j^ j^ 



38 



AUG 17 1904 



